


In Potentia

by linguamortua



Series: 90 Minute Timed Writing Challenge - May 2015 [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Bottom Brock Rumlow, Brock Rumlow Is Really Nasty, Date Rape, Dubious Morality, M/M, Manipulation, Pain, Painful Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are times when Brock Rumlow looks across at Steve Rogers and catches him gazing back in admiration or curiosity, or some blend of the two. Usually Brock would go in for the kill. He’s never been shy. But even if something exists in potentia, he’s just a guy, you know? And what’s ‘just a guy’ to a man like Steve Rogers? Would it be so wrong if he nudged things along a bit? What’s the worst that could happen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Potentia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unscrambledegg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unscrambledegg/gifts).



> Written in 90 minutes from a prompt submitted to me as part of a self-imposed timed writing challenge. An anonymous prompter put in a request for: "Aphrodisiacs. (And to make trash levels rise exponentially - Rumlow’s the one who gave it to Steve - but Steve has no idea he did.) It makes Steve insatiable; solo techniques just aren’t cutting it. So Rumlow helps."
> 
> You can add me [on Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/).

There are times when Brock Rumlow looks across at Steve Rogers and catches him gazing back in admiration or curiosity, or some blend of the two. Usually Brock would go in for the kill. He’s never been shy. But even if something exists in potentia, he’s just a guy, you know? And what’s ‘just a guy’ to a man like Steve Rogers? Would it be so wrong if he nudged things along a bit? What’s the worst that could happen? It’s with that last terrible lie ringing in his ears that he finds himself punching a seven-digit code into the heavily-reinforced door of the nearest HYDRA technical installation, one hand on his firearm just in case. Look, he may work for HYDRA, but that doesn’t mean they’re not a creepy bunch of bastards. He’s not _stupid_ , Jesus.

*

A little quick-thinking patter is all it takes to get into back past the biohazard doors and into the quiet labs, full of pleasingly easily-intimidated scientists. He picks out a young one, guides him away from his workbench with a firm hand on his elbow and shushes his stuttering protestations with a code-word and a name-drop. The lab tech licks his lips nervously.

‘It’s not strictly speaking _finished_ ,’ he begins, dry-washing his hands together, and Brock rolls his eyes tremendously.

‘You got the clearance to deny me?’

‘I’m not denying you, I’m _warning_ you,’ the tech tries to say, but Brock snatches the little vial from his hand and tucks it into his pocket where it lies cool and hard against his leg.

‘So if anything fucks up,’ he shrugs, ‘it’s on me.’ He turns on his heel and marches out with military precision.

‘But you haven’t signed for it!’ wails the technician, one hand lifted as if trying to pull Brock back. Brock keeps moving, knowing that the key to getting away with anything is to act like you have the perfect right to do it.

*

It’s pitifully easy to get invited over to Steve’s depressing, brown bachelor pad. Deep, existential loneliness isn’t hard to exploit. Brock kind of feels bad, but then he thinks about all the obvious plays he’s made and how he doesn’t even register on Steve’s radar and he makes himself push the guilt down and stamp on it hard. I mean, come on, it’s not like he could _make_ Steve do anything he didn’t want to do. Even if the vial works, even if the clear liquid does what it’s supposed to do, there’s no guarantee it’s Brock that Steve will want.

It was unstable, the technician said. Physiologically it caused arousal, but users were unable to disconnect from existing emotional bonds. In tests between lovers, individuals were reluctant to be intimate with other people, even when desperate. So it stands to reason, Brock rehearses in his mind as he drives across town, that someone wouldn’t have sex with someone they didn’t like. That’s just logical.

*

He palms the vial and empties it into Steve’s coffee with ease, stirring it in with the milk. _Va bene_.

*

Steve warms up fast, damn fast. One minute they’re watching some second-rate cooking show and he’s exclaiming over the knife skills and the outlandish modern recipes, finishing his coffee in a long gulp. A handful of minutes later he’s restlessly shifting in his seat, playing with his hands, absently-mindedly rubbing the side of his bare foot against the soft carpet. Brock bides his time through the cooking challenge and the big reveal. Steve’s fair skin is a little pink and he’s unbuttoned his shirt and opened it out over his tight white undershirt.

‘That’s a bit casual for you, Cap,’ Brock says with a flick of his eyes across Steve’s body.

‘It’s actually kind of warm,’ laughs Steve ruefully. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh, no need to apologise,’ Brock says and he takes his chance, reaches out a hand to Steve’s shoulder and gives him a friendly but lingering squeeze up by the neck. He’s never really touched Steve, aside from the occasional brush of a hand when passing over a weapon. It thrills him, the tight, warm muscle under his fingertips. Steve’s hand comes up to meet his, fluttering and surprisingly soft and Steve looks across at him with a furrowed forehead.

‘We don’t hang out much, do we?’ Steve asks. He’s _looking_ at Brock; it’s a bit like that Captain America honest gaze where he stares right into your eyes and agrees with you. It’s more personal though, it’s more Steve. He’s looking _and_ seeing.

‘We don’t,’ agrees Brock and turns himself on the sofa, bringing his right knee up loosely so he can sit facing Steve.

‘We should, I think,’ Steve tells him, his pupils starting to dilate. Then Steve reaches out, reaches forward, catches his fingertips gently behind the back of Brock’s jaw and brings their lips together. There’s a beautiful, agonising moment where Brock thinks that it can’t possibly be real, which lasts through the first soft press of their mouths and up until Steve wraps a strong arm around Brock’s shoulders and pulls him down to lie on his impossibly broad chest. Steve kisses him for a long time with his hands gripping Brock’s ass, two full handfuls to draw their hips together in a slow, sensual roll. Brock usually likes things faster, likes a streak of desperation in the bedroom, but he can’t deny that Steve knows what he’s doing. It’s _exactly_ how he thought Captain America would make out (on the sofa, tasting like coffee, with sweet, deep kisses and idly wandering hands). Steve rumbles with pleasure deep in his chest, breaks away for a moment to tackle Brock’s belt and Brock just mouths at his nipple through his shirt and lets him, lets him do anything.

*

There’s the beginning of pain in the way that Steve’s fingering him and Brock reaches one hand down to Steve’s big wrist. If Steve Rogers has a bottle of star-spangled lube in the apartment, he certainly hasn’t been thinking clearly enough to go and fetch it, and Brock doesn’t really bottom that often. Practically never, actually.

‘Take it easy, man,’ he says, sounding strangled as he tries to get Steve to ease up, but Steve just stares right through his eyes, unseeing and unhearing, and spits in his palm to wet his cock. He lines up against Brock, fitting his dick smoothly up against his ass and —

‘Brock,’ he says suddenly, low and urgent and garbled, and Brock is just about to say _wait, hold on, I’m not ready_ when it hits him.

Not Brock. _Buck_.

*

_— and oh Jesus Buck Jesus you feel so good God it’s been so long, so long, so good to be inside you again, you’re so hot, you feel so good under me Buck, you always did and I missed it I missed this I missed you, missed you in my bed, missed you like this, you don’t even know, Buck, you don’t even know, but I thought about you, all the time, every day, I jerked off to you, I thought about you like this all wet and open, now come on, touch your cock for me, touch yourself, get hard for me, sweet boy, get hard and jerk it for me, tell me how good it feels, no no no don’t move, you don’t need to move, I’ll give you everything, just give me your mouth again—_

_— you taste like coffee, you taste so good, I’m gonna come in you and then I’m gonna suck you I want I want to taste your cock, remember, remember like I used to, wet you up, get you wet, taste you, hear you, just, just, um, your neck tastes like sweat it’s good salty it’s—_

_— mm, yes, yes, Buck, yes, I’m gonna, I’m gonna, Christ yes, yes—_

*

Steve falls asleep like a cherub, golden in the fading sunset filtering through the half-open blinds. His hair is ruffled and sweaty, sticking to his forehead. He’s streaked with sweat down his chest and legs and his cock is limp and sticky against his thigh. Brock sees a little trail of watermarks down the left side of Steve’s jaw and knows they’re from Brock’s own tears – that was when he had his face buried in Steve’s neck, when he was sitting in his lap, tipped backwards and fucked until he sobbed with pain and Steve whispered _yes yes Buck yes you sound so good when you moan like that_. Steve’s got one thick arm flung above his head, his cheek pillowed on his scrunched-up t-shirt. The sofa is hardly long enough to hold him, and two of the cushions are skewing right off the edge, but he’s so far gone into sleep that he could probably slide right off with them and not notice.

He definitely doesn’t notice as Brock gathers up his clothes and tugs his jeans out from under Steve’s left leg. He slips on his boxers, wincing; he should check himself in a mirror, he feels wrong inside, wet and sticky and throbbing. His jeans hurt as the belt settles over his bruised hips. He’s covered in bite marks along his shoulders and neck. There are probably more on his upper back where Steve had him bent over the sofa back.

Lord, but he hurts. He’s walking with a hitch, ginger and afraid to do more damage, but it hurts even more to know that there is nothing, nothing in this fucked-up and unfair world, that can make Steve Rogers want him.

‘Buck,’ murmurs Steve in his sleep as Brock limps across a creaking floorboard.

‘Fuck you,’ chokes Brock under his breath, and closes the apartment door behind him. Steve’ll get his, he thinks, he’ll get his real fucking soon. And when he does, it’s going to be the best kind of pain Brock can give him.


End file.
